Garands
by ExquisiteRose
Summary: "Go bright light, scour the forest through the night, searching for a sign of life. Memories of fears and strife keep his legs from turning blue, broken bones and muddy shoes, running through the fields I knew. Join the ranks of the favored few. What have I become?" -Garands; Young the Giant.


**A/N**: This has been in my mind for a long time, and I had to get it down. This is an AU, technically. It can be canon, really, except for, you know, the obvious change.

**W/C**: 1115

**Notes**: It's set during the First Wizarding War.

**Inspiration**: Garands, by Young the Giant.

**Additional Note**: Please, go listen to the song. It adds to the story fittingly.

**Warnings**: Depictions of violence. Angst.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter. It belongs to J.K. Rowling.

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_"Now that we have got what's left,_

_Lost my rights when I was young,_

_Taken by the ones I trust, long before I knew of love._

_All the things I understood,_

_Fighting for the greater good;_

_Now tell me why it feels so wrong,_

_Feels so wrong to hold this gun._

_Now look what I've become.."_

Running through the thicket of the forest, lights following him, chasing him, he shot off one, two, three, four spells, disarming several of his attackers and stupifying the rest. "_Accio wands_," he breathed raggedly. The wands flew swiftly to his hand, and he gripped them tightly, as he looked around for allies only to find enemies.

He could feel a painful stitch in his side and his shoulder felt out of place, but he didn't stop running. He could hear voices shoting insults after him, he could hear yelling and screams and condemnations. He could smell death and dust and ash, and his nose felt aflame as he breathed sharply.

Pushing himself faster still, faster, farther, not fast enough, not far enough, he threw one leg roughly in front of the other, all grace gone, just gasping and crunching and running.

The snap of a branch to his left alerted him to another Death Eater, and he quickly cast a _protego _as the bastard sent a killing curse. Darting quickly to the left, he barreled through bushes blocking a worn path, the Death Eater hot on his heels. He sent back several quick, efficient spells and heard the distinct collapse of his attacker.

Only a few more yards, he thought determinedly to himself. Tired as he was, worn as he was, exhausted as he was, he pushed and shoved and tossed himself to the furthest limit, and then more when it wasn't enough, with bruises and pangs wearing him thin.

Forty steps to the edge and a spell caught him in the back, making him tumble to the floor, reopening several cuts on his legs as the spell tore the skin of his back, the slick slide of blood slithering down his his skin and gradually soaking his shirt. He hissed in pain where he was heaving himself from the ground when a boot pushed him to the unwelcoming hard floor, flat on his back.

A crazed, deranged voice spoke, and he shivered, "There, there, dear. Don't get up. Dear me, those wounds must _hurt_," the voice cooed mockingly, boot pressing fiercely to the cuts on his back, twisting cruelly side to side. "You musn't move. You'll make it worse; and you'll need to save your strength for what I have prepared for you," the voice trilled wickedly, excitedly.

Thinking quickly, he shifted the arm not holding his wands, grabbing a boot and twisting it harshly, flipping her, her head hitting the ground with a crushing impact. The move was unexpected for its non-magical characteristic, and, using the element of surprise, he swiftly jumped to his feet and cast _stupify _before she had time to catch her breath, then ran, ran, _ran _to the edge of the boundary, to freedom.

Crossing the line, he finally apparated, one last glimpse of bloodshed, of bloody bodies littering the floor of the pack's grounds, of the bright shots of green, red, and blue lights of spells and death, of horribly mishapen people, with missing body parts and frazzled, burnt hair, of the flames that licked the tops of the trees and grass that soaked it in welcomingly, the images imprinting themselves into his mind; one last sound of the tortured screams of the night, of the startling shots of spells cutting through the thick, viscous air, the hoarse cries for help, the crackling of the fire, and the crack of apparations signaling the arrival of Death Eaters and Order members.

* * *

Arrving at his destination, he opened his eyes and cringed in the silence of the night. He opened the door to his flat and limped hurriedly to the his room. Their room.

Sirius was sitting there unobtrusively, impatiently, fully dressed, wand at the ready, pointing towards the doorway when Remus limped in. Remus swallowed the hurt when Sirius failed to lower his wand immediately after he saw it was him. He sighed in relief, however, when Sirius came closer, albeit hesitantly, to check on him. Casting several healing spells, Sirius asked the questions he couldn't answer, "Where were you? What happened? _Tell me_."

Remus felt a deep lump of guilt build in his throat, preventing him from speaking, from spilling the truth through tears and relief and desperation to the one he loved, because he couldn't, because so much depended on him, because Dumbledore said not to; and Remus looked into Sirius' concerned and loving eyes and shook his head. "I _can't_," Remus said thickly, willing Sirius to understand, to please understand.

Sirius growled in frustration and pushed Remus away before he finished healing him. "You can't," Sirius spat sarcastically. Sirius looked away, disgusted, and, not for the first time, Remus resented Dumbledore and resented his missions. He resented the people he was fighting for, hated Voldemort a little more now, hated everyone for taking away Sirius.

Sirius, who was now looking at him with suspicion and betrayal and distrust and; "_Please_," Remus pleaded brokenly. What was he doing this for, who was he fighting for? He couldn't remember why he sacrificing himself anymore, why he was sacrificing them for the greater good if he lost this.

Sirius shot him a look of the deepest disdain and distrust before stomping out of the room, out of the flat, their flat, and into the dark night. Remus flinched as the door slammed, hearing the growl of Sirius' motorbike shortly after.

Sinking to the ground, Remus hugged his knees, trembling, and wondered why it felt so wrong to fight for the innocent when he knew it was right, why he felt so selfish to want to give up when he knew doing so would kill so many. Why he could care less he was the only one who could do these missions, who could save these lives, who could change the views of werewolves who were siding with Voldemort. He was ashamed, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was nothing he'd regret more than fighting the battle for the Light when he'd rather be fighting the battle for Sirius.

But when Dumbldore's patronus, a glowing, wise phoenix, appeared in front of him, summoning him for another mission, Remus stood and answered the call to battle because all his losses could be worth something, maybe were worth something important, worth lives and family and love, and maybe it'd be worth the loneliness of his shared flat, and the deep cold of his empty bed, and the silence of his mind and home; and, if they weren't, he had to hope they would be someday.

Because he couldn't stop fighting now. Not unless he wanted to lose everything; so he pocketed his wand and apparated to his next mission without a complaint. Not that he could complain to anyone if they were there.

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**A/N**: Please, leave a review telling me your thoughts.


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